Palmer saw that pallor, and could not understand its real cause. He saw also that Thérèse had been weeping, and Laurent's discomposed countenance put the finishing-touch to his agitation. The first glance that the two men exchanged was a glance of hatred and defiance; then they walked toward each other, uncertain whether they should shake hands, or grasp each other by the throat.
At that moment, Laurent was the better and more sincere of the two, for he had spontaneous impulses which redeemed all his faults. He opened his arms, and embraced Palmer effusively, making no effort to conceal his tears, which were beginning to suffocate him.
"What is all this?" said Palmer, glancing at Thérèse.
"I do not know," she replied, firmly; "I have just told him that we are going to America to be married. It causes him some grief. He apparently thinks that we are going to forget him. Tell him, Palmer, we shall always love him, at a distance as well as near at hand."
"He is a spoiled child!" rejoined Palmer. "He must know that I have but one word, and that I desire your happiness before everything. Must we take him to America, to make him cease grieving and causing you to weep, Thérèse?"
These words were uttered in a tone impossible to describe. It was a tone of paternal affection, blended with an indefinable flavor of profound and unconquerable bitterness.
Thérèse understood. She asked for her hat and shawl, saying to Palmer:
"We will go to dine at a restaurant. Catherine expected nobody but me, and there is not enough dinner in the house for us both."
"You mean for us three," rejoined Palmer, still half-bitter and half-loving.
"But I cannot dine with you," said Laurent, understanding at last what was going on in Palmer's mind. "I must leave you; I will come again to say adieu. What day do you start?"